Things nobody ever tells you about afab bodily functions, so you have to google it to find out it’s perfectly normal:
Vaginal chemistry being acidic enough to bleach your black underwear.
"It’s unnatural—the things he does to her," one of the men said. There were three of them at the next table, all drinking themselves slowly blind.
"I’ve heard he sets his dogs on her to fuck her bloody before he has a go. But then again—he’s—"
"Don’t say it, Pate. Don’t say it. You’ve heard what he does to people who call him—"
"He’s a monster."
Gendry stilled, his mug of ale halfway to his lips. But they weren’t talking about him. No one ever used quite that tone of voice when talking about him. Besides, he was a knight now. Ser Gendry of the Hollow Hill, and no one would ask after the family name.
"Why doesn’t she escape, then? Just run off—if she’s so miserable?" demanded one of the men—the one who had been quiet.
"How’s a girl of thirteen supposed to run off?"
"She could get help. Surely one of the guards would take pity on the poor girl."
But the first man just laughed. It was a bitter laugh—a harsh laugh. ”She’s a Stark of Winterfell. They’re worth more than all of Casterly Rock right now, aren’t they.”
"Hang on—she’s not thirteen. That’s the one they married to the imp, who helped kill Joffrey. Sansa. She’s the younger one."
Gendry’s heart stopped. She’d run off—run off in a fury and they hadn’t been able to find her at all. He’d heard rumors the Hound had gotten her, and that he’d tried to bring her to her family. He hadn’t taken her—no—he couldn’t have—and yet he…
"The younger one?" one of the men asked. "Thought she was dead."
"Wasn’t, was she? The Lannisters sent her North, didn’t they? When they gave it to the Boltons. So she could marry him—Lord Bolton’s bas-son."
Gendry thought he was going to be sick. Arya was—she was—she couldn’t be married. She couldn’t be. For all she was just a child, she had more fight in her than he did, even if she was too smart for her own good. She’d gotten him out of as much trouble as she’d gotten him into. And she was being set upon by dogs and monsters and—
He downed the rest of his ale and called for another mug. There was no justice in this world, no goodness, no hope—none at all.